Following Will

William two weeks ago.

Two weeks ago I was in Eastern Mountain Sports looking at child-carrying backpacks.  You see, Atticus and I were adopting William, a fifteen year old miniature schnauzer who was dropped off at a kill shelter and saved by the good souls at the New Jersey Schnauzer Rescue Network.  I knew by the photograph I’d seen of William he had cataracts and coupled with his age I felt pretty confident he would not be able to hike a mountain.  And yet I wanted him to experience what it was like to stand on top of a peak, feel the wind in his face, breathe the clean air, and gaze out at the sea of breaking waves the mountains resemble as they fade off into the horizon – even through cloudy eyes.  I wanted him to experience the wonder Atticus and I have grown to call life. 

But things rarely work out was we plan them.

When Atticus and I picked up William in Connecticut we got even less than I bargained for.  He was a dog with arthritic hips and had a difficult time standing.  He was mostly blind and mostly deaf.  He didn’t want to be picked up and attempted to bite anyone who did so.  One of my thoughts was that there was no way the poor fellow would live very long.

Whatever hopes I had for him sitting on top of some peak on his own or in a backpack were dashed.  The poor old guy couldn’t even sit – he’d just flop down due to lack of strength – and there was no way he’d let me put him in a carrier. 

I’ve never much liked limitations and I reserve a greater dislike for people who foist their own upon others.  But here was an old dog coming with plenty of his own.  Physically limited, emotionally lost.  He was abandoned, frightened, heartbroken (I imagined), and understandably angry. 

So Atticus and I simply let William be William.  Over the first few days there was a lot of anger and obstacles to deal with.  We live on the second floor and there are quite a few stairs to climb and poor William couldn’t manage a single one of them with his hips.  A harness helped him get down the stairs but I resorted to carrying him up to our apartment and each time he’d fight me wildly and try to bite me. 

Luckily I live with Atticus, who has the patience of Job, and he allowed William a wide birth. I found my patience by imagining Atticus in William’s position.  If he was fifteen and in poor health and something happened to me so that we couldn’t be together ever again, he would be just as terrified as William.  Just as lost, just as hurt.  And this theme stayed in my heart whenever it started to break.  That, and the simplest and best of lessons: the old “Golden Rule” – treat others as you wish to be treated.

One of my friends met William during those first few days and raised his eyebrows.  “Hate to say it, Tom, but you made a mistake. I know you mean well but that old guy should have been put to sleep.”

I looked at him and asked, “If the tables were turned, how would you handle it?”

“I told you the other day, I wouldn’t have adopted him.  It’s not fair to you or Atticus.”

“No,” I said. “What I meant was what if you were in Will’s place?  What if you were in poor health, couldn’t see or hear, had the only home and the only family you’d ever known ripped away from you and you were put in a cage to die on your own unless someone took you home.  What would you have me do then?”

He didn’t say anything.  Instead he squatted, let Will sniff his hand, and gently ran his fingers over Will’s head.

As for my hopes of Will being able to hike?  He may never climb a mountain, not a real one anyway, but I’m reminded every day that in life we all have our own mountains to climb.  And yet some regular gentle exercise has strengthened those back hips.  Metacam and Dasaquin help with the pain and stability. Now when he goes to jump up to play with me his hips no longer betray him when he lands.  This gives him even more confidence. 

Just a couple of days of ago, just over twenty-four hours after a lengthy and much needed dental appointment where anesthesia was used, Will went on his first hike.  For Atticus and me it wasn’t very far at all.  It wouldn’t be far for many people for it was only a mile stroll through the woods along the Saco River.  But it was a sight to behold.  Will following Atticus, albeit slowly, but looking better than he had a week ago, stopping to sniff, and simply enjoy his surroundings.  When we came to a small tree that had fallen across the trail, however, he was stopped in his tracks.  I waited to see what he would do and he just looked up at me and this little dog that used to try to bite me let me kneel next to him and place each of his front paws on the fallen tree.  Then I placed one on the other side and used his harness to help him get over it. 

On our return trip to the car, when we came to that same log, Will stopped and looked up at me again. This time I dropped his leash and stepped over the obstacle and stood on the other side and waited.  Atticus, had stopped, too, and came back to sit next to me and we watched  Will together. After a moment of thought Will hopped over it and trotted to my arms. 

Like I said, we all have our own mountains to climb.  And Will is climbing them, as Paige Foster, Atticus’s breeder would say in her southern twang, “…by the wagonload!”

As wonderful as our little hike in the woods was, it was another journey that impressed me even more.  Five days after Will arrived he traveled down to the Grappone Center in Concord for the annual dinner of the Concord-Merrimack County SPCA.  Atticus and I were the featured guests and I had not intended to bring Will, but that morning something had clicked and he seemed to understand that he had found a home with us and I didn’t want to leave him behind. 

That night, when Atticus and I stood up on stage and I finished telling our story, someone asked me what our next adventure was.  I excused myself, left the stage for a moment, and returned with Will.    

Once lost Will sat comfortably in my arms, next to Atticus who was on a table. I told everyone about his journey and when I was done there was Will pushing his little body against mine, looking out with those old eyes at 360 people as they stood for him in unison and gave him a rousing ovation. 

Oh, I know it was for the three of us, but I think of Will and see his gleaming face, his eyes looking brighter than I’d seen them, his little pink tongue hanging out of his smiling mouth.  He was as dog left behind not two weeks before and now he glowed in a room full of admiration and affection. 

And so it is that those who we lift up can lift up so many others.  And you don’t have to be able to see more than shapes or shadows or stand on top of a mountain to appreciate the view . . . or the love.  

Will’s story is one of redemption. He gives us all hope. He teaches and we learn by following him. It is never too late to love nor too late to be loved.

I cannot help but think of Tennyson's Ulysses when it comes to Will and the last chapter of his life.  But more importantly, there is more to be written.
Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.          

Will today.